Page 14 of Better Love Next Time
Her fingers plucked the bottle from his hand. It was dangerously tempting. To break from this hell of her making. But she had conquered the poppy’s numbing allure once, and if she returned, she might never escape.
She offered it back.
“Keep it,” he said.
Kitty thanked him and dropped the laudanum into her velvet purse.
Julian donned his bauta and joined the basetta play. His black domino thrown from his wide shoulders, his damask suit was midnight blue with a matching surfeit of embroidery and beading. He shifted in his chair, his honed legs crossing. His head cocked sideways as he studied his cards. Long, blunt-edged fingers discarded one.
Where had his dreams of shipbuilding gone? He seemed thoroughly set on wasting his life.
He had expected Kitty to leave after they had married, though he had never demanded it. She had remained with him and his London friends, knowing time would never wear him down or bring him back to loving her. She took her penance, hid her shame with a ready smile, and when her smile faded, she waited for her suffering to bear fruit. To mean something.
A glittering blonde in ivory damask skimmed her fingers across Julian’s shoulders as she settled in the chair beside him. Without a mask, the woman could not enter the play. No. She set her sights on Julian.
Julian didn’t spare the woman a glance, but in the confines of his coat, Kitty saw him tense with awareness.
How long before he gave in to his male needs and took a mistress? Tonight? Next week? She had fled England five years ago on that steel-grey day, and the reason, a lie not of her choosing, none of it her choosing, had been a cold one delivered by letter. If she were to spill the truth, she would endanger not just her life, but the life of another very dear to her. Because she was not supposed to be here, alive, at all.
“Madame Allard,” Anthony said, nodding at the blonde. “A courtesan from Paris.”
If Julian took the courtesan tonight, she could bear it. She would. Better to know where she stood than go on indefinitely in this state of blunted agony.
The courtesan locked eyes with Julian. Kitty gulped the rest of her champagne.
“You could be her,” Anthony said. “I would name you, Madame Féline. Stunning. An incomparable. A man could not help but want to hold you. Such light. Such delicacy. Such sensual appeal.”
She shifted in agitation. “You are drunk.”
“True.” Anthony grinned. “But I am also a man.”
She almost reminded him she was married.
“That necklace your husband in name only gave you,” he said, flicking his hand at her neck, “is nothing. You would have ten times its worth in a month. You could live in luxury off your jewels.”
“I do not want ten times its worth.”
“Yes. Yes. You want his love. But while you grow older, he grows colder.”
Her heart keened at the truth told in rhyme. Her eyes flamed, hot tears clouding her sight. She looked away.
“No, Kit, don’t cry. That was not my intention. Smile for me.”
Kitty lifted her face to the shadowy, ochre ceiling and came back with a smile.
“There.” Anthony sought her hand gripping her skirt. “You have a beautiful smile. But you should never grace a man with it unless he earns it. A man must have a challenge and a reward. And yours”—he tapped her chin—“will be your smile.”
“How can a courtesan not smile?” Was she really entertaining this? No. But she was curious.
“She does smile. But to only those who earn it.”
“But men expect women to be pleasing. Happy in their presence?—”
“Do they?”
“Yes. They do.” A line creased Anthony’s brow, causing her to doubt her assertion. “Don’t they?”
“They expect many different things. Most of all, they want to be special.”
